


The Trouble with Turbolifts

by GuardianofFun



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Porthos cameo, Sick Malcolm, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 08:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10240277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianofFun/pseuds/GuardianofFun
Summary: Trip's tired and hungry, Malcolm's aching and sick, they really just want to go back to their rooms and sleep, is that too much to ask? Of course it is! The turbolift breaks and a whole lot of fun ensues. Will it finally prompt these idiots to express their feelings for one another? I sincerely hope so.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/gifts).



> Written for and with the help of prisdreamsbravely (go check out all her cool work!) Thanks for making Trip actually sound American!
> 
> Mostly pure self indulgent fluff, for once in my life not writing angst?? amazing wow 
> 
> warning for some swears, Malcolm has a dirty mouth.

“Archer to Trip.” The comm. buzzes in Trip’s office, and he taps it without looking up from the PADD he is typing on.

“Cap’n?” he calls back, distracted by the report he was typing. There is a chuckle from the other end, and it pulls him away from the sentence he’s writing.

“Trip, have you seen the time recently?” Jonathan asks, and Trip glances at the chronometer on the screen beside him - he was supposed to meet the captain twenty minutes ago for dinner.

“Ah shit, Jon, I’m so swamped with work, I didn’t realise—“

The captain laughs again. “It’s alright Trip, Porthos hasn’t got to your dinner yet. See you in a few?” he asks.

“Sure thing,” he replies, cutting off the comm. and pushing his chair back. He runs a hand over his face and a groan escapes his lips. It seemed that this week there had been full of nothing but mini-disasters, nothing big enough to warrant stressing much over, but enough of them to mean Trip has been working late every day so far. As though every time he manages to sit down, something else comes up.

Trip stands, back protesting at every stretch, and tucks the PADD in his pocket. Maybe he can finish the last report after dinner. As he heads for the turbo lift, his stomach growls and he realises just how long it’s been since he’s eaten - almost ten hours. He steps into the lift and hits the button, silently hoping Archer’s got him something good, and a lot of it.

Before the lift can complete its journey though, it stops and the doors open with a soft swoosh. Standing on the other side is Malcolm Reed, looking more than a little dishevelled. It looks as though he’s been working just as much as Trip has, and it shows in his tired eyes, mussed hair, and crumpled uniform. He greets Trip with a small nod and a “Commander,” as he steps into the lift. Trip notices there’s a tray from the mess in his hands. It doesn’t really look like dinner; a salad, a sandwich and a small bowl of chips, but then again, there’s not exactly much left this time of night.

Trip watches as Malcolm hits the button for B deck, where his quarters are and tries to strike up conversation. “Not eatin’ in the mess tonight. Lieutenant?” he asks and Malcolm’s smile is tight as he responds.

“Not tonight, movie night,” he says, and Trip realises he hadn’t even remembered that was tonight. He’s really out of it this week. Malcolm, not noticing his reaction, continues. “They’ve chosen some blasted musical, it’s loud and flashy.” He winces at the thought, and his free hand moves to rub his head. “And I’ve got one hell of a headache. Dinner and bed for me tonight,” he concludes, turning to stare down at his meagre meal.

Trip looks over the obviously unwell officer.

“Why doncha stop off at Sickbay for somethin’?” he offers and Malcolm gives him a mock grimace.

“No thanks! I’m due a physical soon, I don’t want to go giving Phlox an excuse to start poking and prod—“

He is interrupted by a sudden bang, and the ship juddering beneath their feet. Both men are thrown into the wall, Malcolm doing his best to keep at least his sandwich intact. Trip’s head collides with Malcolm’s elbow as they tumble, at the exact moment the power in the lift cuts out, and they are plunged into darkness.

For a moment after Trip opens his eyes, head reeling from its collision, he wonders if he’s gone blind. Then the emergency lights flicker to life. The ship seems to have stopped shaking now. The only problem, Trip thinks, is that the lift has stopped moving too. As he straightens, rubbing at the sore spot on his head, he glances at the control panel. Reaching over with bated breath, he taps at the button for the doors.

Nothing.

He watches as Malcolm gingerly picks at the crisps that have flown from the bowl on his tray, collecting them in a neat pile on the side of his tray. It takes a few seconds for Malcolm to look up, and his eyes catch Trip’s. They follow his arm and then dart back to his face.

“No…” he says, but it almost sounds like a question. Trip jabs the button again and gets silence in return.

“Afraid so.”

Malcolm’s brow furrows, and Trip can’t help but think it’s going to make his headache worse. The Englishman manages to suppress a sigh, and quickly sets his tray down on the floor. By the time he stands up, the lines on his forehead have eased, and he can see that Malcolm’s ‘work’ face is back on.

“Try the comm.?” he asks, glancing around the small space. “It doesn’t feel like we’re under attack, but still,” he adds, one hand on his hip while the other presses to the wall of the turbolift. The usual thrum of the mechanics are gone, but the ship still hums happily beneath them. A few seconds of tapping later, the comm. Trip is fiddling with crackles a little. Trip pouts at the thing and gives it a dejected flick.

“Nah, it looks busted; I think we’re gonna have to take the thing apart if we wanna talk to anyone,” he says, running a hand over his face. Just what he needs. Malcolm pulls a face.

“Great, I’m stuck in the turbolift, in what could be a crisis, with you.” The last one sounds like an afterthought. Trip pulls a similar face back at him, wondering when he reverted to five years old.

“Well y’aint the best company either, Mal,” he replies. “Though—” He presses an ear to the crack of the door. “I doubt it’s a crisis. There’s not much noise out there.” He lifts a fist and bangs against the door. “Hey!” he calls out, loud enough that Malcolm winces. “Anyone out there?”

A minute or so passes with no response, and Trip tries a few more times but still nothing. Malcolm, in the meantime, has bent to push the tray of food to the corner and he turns with his hands on his hips to grumble.

“I don’t think anyone’s out there Commander. We’re stuck.” His voice drops into a exaggeratedly serious tone. “We’re going to die here.”

Trip rolls his eyes. “Alright, calm down Mister Doom ’n’ Gloom. At least we known the rest-a the crew ain’t dead this time.”

Malcolm raises an eyebrow, and Trip can see him biting down on his lip to hide a smile.

“And how exactly do you know that? They _could_ be dead!” The conversation is a lighthearted reprise of their unfortunate adventure in Shuttlepod One some years back, a bickering that continues for a while, but lacks any real heat.

Malcolm’s features have softened into a playful smirk and Trip is laughing lightly as they berate each other. The engineer tinkers with the comm. for a while longer, their banter continuing for a while longer until they run out of steam and Malcolm’s face becomes pinched. Trip’s mood drops too, as he reaches the conclusion that without tools, there’s very little he can do with the mostly broken panel. At best, he can prompt a high pitched squeal but it makes his own bruised head throb, and the look on Malcolm’s face is enough to stop him trying again. He gives the comm. one last poke and then gives up.

“Not much we can do ah‘m afraid, unless you’re hiding a screwdriver on ya?”

Malcolm shrugs. “Afraid not.”

The sad look on his face tugs at Trip’s heartstrings a little; if they’re gonna be stuck together, he can at least keep Malcolm’s mind off his sore head. He throws him a dirty smirk.

“Aww, you’re just happy to see me then?” That gets him the reaction he was aiming for - a streak of red across Malcolm’s face, followed by a snort that he attempts to cover with a cough.

Knowing Malcolm as long as he has, and after the years spent slowly getting past the man’s walls and barriers, Trip is well aware that the Brit is nowhere near as prim and proper as one would first believe. He does, in fact, have a sense of humour, and it’s probably the dirtiest onboard. Once you get past ‘just colleagues’ and move towards something resembling what Trip likes to think of as ‘best friends’, the more relaxed, inane, silly and sometimes—to Trip’s surprise—flirty conversations, flow easily.

Malcolm composes himself enough to retaliate quickly.

“Oh, I’m always happy to see you, Trip.” The words would have touched Trip, had they not been dripping with sarcasm. That dry, ever-so-British way he has of talking, never fails to make Trip’s stomach spin. The one thing that hasn’t changed over the years is Trip’s hopeless infatuation with the man. It wasn’t always that way. After their first meeting, he had almost hated the man with his snobbish attitude and standoffish nature, but even back then, he could not have denied Malcolm Reed was gorgeous. All sharp lines and cheekbones, it was as though he had been carved from marble by one of the greats, with skin to match, though it could turn brilliant shades of pink and red.

Malcolm is more than just a pretty face though. Trip’s seen under that too-tight jumpsuit before, watched strong arms slide into EV suits and seen that small waist that he just knows he could wrap both hands around with ease.

At Malcolm’s words, and the subsequent muddle Trip is thrown into, he finds himself incapable of forming a coherent reply and so just grumbles as he feels his own ears turn red. Sometimes, Malcolm looks at him with those piercing eyes as though he can see into his mind. Trip sincerely hopes he can’t. Little does he know, Malcolm’s own gut does the same twist when he makes Trip flush red, and the armoury officer’s mind goes to all sorts of places imagining other ways of making Trip red and unintelligible.

Both of them stand, much closer together than is necessary in the rather generous space of the turbolift, squirming and blushing for a few moments, far too concerned with hiding their own embarrassment to notice the others.

Suddenly, the comm. crackles and both heads snap up. The Captain's voice, tinny and quiet, echoes through the space.

“Trip?” He calls, and there's laughter in his voice.

Trip, cracks a grin, and Malcolm, for the first time since the lift shuddered to a halt, breathes easy. "I'm here Cap'n," he calls back, one hand giving the armoury officer a quick thumbs up. He gets a weak version back as the Captain replies.

"We've had some minor issues; slight anomaly has blown some power relays, we've lost power in a few systems," he says, and Trip sighs. “But we managed to get the comm. back pretty quick so there’s a silver lining.”

"What've we lost?" he asks, not sure he wants to know. Whatever it is, he'll no doubt be patching it up tomorrow. Jonathan clears his throat and there’s a distant sound of a PADD scraping along a table.

"Power to the turbolift, obviously." Trip swears he is smirking as he says that. "Same problem's hit the doors on decks B and C. We've got quite a few crewmen stuck in their quarters, and a lot of the lights, too. We're clear of the anomaly now though, so that's the worst of it."

Malcolm throws his hands up looking annoyed.

“Oh brilliant! So I'm stuck in the lift, and if we get out I’ll be locked out of my room!" He huffs. Trip tries not to laugh honestly, and it's only just over his choked giggles that they hear Jonathan.

"Malcolm, you too?" he says, and Trip is sure now that the older man is grinning to himself.

"Ay Captain," Malcolm replies, giving a mock salute towards the comm.

Trip chuckles. "Any guess as to when we'll be out of here, Sir?" He asks and there's some shuffling on the other end.

"I've got three crewmen on it, they reckon an hour or two and they'll have all the doors open again," Jonathan replies and Malcolm slouches a little. "You'll be able to go straight to bed Lieutenant, thought it'll be dark. Lights should be back on tomorrow morning." He brightens a little at that but Trip frowns slightly.

"I guess dinner's off the table then?"

Jonathan laughs and offers, "I'll get Chef to whip you something up, taken straight to your room."

"Sounds good Cap'n." Then as though only just thinking about it he turns to Malcolm. "You want anythin'?"

Malcolm shakes his head and nods at the tray. "I'm fine, thanks."

Trip shook his head. "Somethin' sweet for Malcolm too, if Chef's got it?"

“I got you. Archer out.”

Malcolm goes to insist otherwise but Trip cuts off the comm. and smiles mischievously at him.

 

* * *

In the captain’s cabin, Archer sits at his desk with an equally mischievous smile on his face.

T’Pol stands by the desk and watches with a somewhat puzzled look on her face—as puzzled as a Vulcan can get that is. She had come to return some PADDs he had leant her, some old Earth literature, when the anomaly hit. After the threat of danger passed, she had stayed to assist in organising repair teams, and listened in as Archer had tried to discover where his missing dinner partner was.

“Captain?” she asks as he ends the link.

When he turns to look at her, the corners of her mouth pull down almost imperceptibly.

“Serving with you, I have come to recognize that face as one that means you’re having far too much... fun.”

“And fun, of course, is impermissible?” he goads her.

Her arched eyebrow twitches. “It is when, more often than not, it is followed shortly by _trouble_.” She continues. “Crewman Sánchez said that they could have the turbolift running again in thirty minutes, why would you lie to Commander Tucker?”

Ask anyone else aboard the _Enterprise_ and they would tell you that the two senior officers deserve their heads knocked together. What is quite obvious to literally the entirety of the crew, even Porthos, is apparently not for the two lovesick men. All they need though, is a little push.

* * *

“You’re incorrigible,” Malcolm mutters and Trip merely nods, still smiling broadly at him. Malcolm sighs. “That’s not a compliment.” 

Trip makes to respond, but Malcolm has shuffled closer to the wall and is sliding down to sit, head tilted back. His eyes flutter closed and hands rub against aching eyes.Trip’s mood makes a quick flip from loud laughter to a more subdued quiet, and he drops down next to his friend. Malcolm doesn’t react, he barely cracks an eye open and Trip realises it’s because he’s concentrating on breathing steadily. Close up, it’s clear to see Malcolm has more than a headache; his face is flushed and he looks as though he’s sweating more than usual for the comfortable warmth of the turbolift.

“Hey Mal,” Trip says, voice soft.

Malcolm’s eyes slide over to him. “Mmm?”

“You sure you’re feelin’ okay?” he asks, staring the man down till he smiles.

“I’m fine, honestly, a bit tired—“

Trip huffs.

“Don’t make me _order you_ , Lieutenant.” He pokes Malcolm in the ribs as he speaks, pushing his accent on the man’s rank in the way he knows Malcolm finds incredibly amusing. It doesn’t even make the man smile, and that’s how Trip knows the poor guy is not doing well. Malcolm turns to him, and with their faces level, Trip is able to see the dark smudges of sleeplessness around the lieutenant’s eyes, and hear his unsteady breathing.

“I feel… not so good,” he says mildly, but for the usually closed-off Englishman, ‘not so good’ means terrible. He scowls, pulling his arms tighter across his chest. “And it’s bloody freezing in here.” Trip watches with concern as Malcolm shudders. Without thinking, the engineer lifts a hand and presses it to Malcolm’s cheek. Weak hands paw at it, while the man grumbles at the touch, but Trip ignores it.

“Malcolm!” He yelps with surprise. “You’re burnin’ up!” Malcolm’s eyes shoot open, and he stares Trip down.

“No I’m not,” the obviously unwell armoury officer argues.

Trip glares at him. “You can’t ‘I’m fine’ your way outta a fever Mal, you’re not well,” he says, dropping his hand but wrapping around one of Malcolm’s trembling arms. He fixes the man with a stern look.

“How long have you been feeling rough?” Malcolm looks shifty. “Malcolm.”

A sigh, and then, “A few days, two or three maybe.”

Trip squeezes his arm a little tighter.

“And how much sleep did you get last night?”

Malcolm’s eyes drift shut and for a worrying moment Trip thinks he’s going to pass out.

“Four hours maybe, I don’t know Trip—“ his voice has become sharp, agitated. Trip should back off, but his mother always said he was ‘blessed with brains to spare but not a lick of common sense!’ He presses on.

“When did you last eat somethin’?”

“Would you just leave it, Trip?” Malcolm snaps back, rubbing his head. Their earlier mood has quickly soured and Malcolm’s unpleasant attitude is quick to rub off on Trip. He pulls his hand away from the lieutenant with a little more force than necessary and bites back.

“Well I’m sorry for tryn’a help out, Malcolm!”

The Brit rolls his eyes. “Oh yes, because what I _really_ need right now is you telling me I need to eat more!”

Trip feels his chest tighten and his voice becomes more of a growl. “Someone’s gotta tell you, you stubborn idiot, otherwise you’ll work yourself to death!” He knows he’s yelling now, and he might have felt bad, but Malcolm gives as good as he gets.

“You’re not my fucking mother, Trip. I don’t need you babying me!” And if his flushed face wasn’t indicative of his sickness, well, that outburst certainly was. Even at his most angry, Malcolm Reed always kept his tongue. There’s a moment of silence, and Malcolm seems to cool for a second. Trip watches as the pink in his cheeks fades, and he feels himself begin to calm too - until Malcolm’s face skips white and goes straight to a pale green. His lips press into a thin line, and he wobbles. Trip goes to steady him, but as though all his strings have been cut, Malcolm flops forwards, face first into his bent knees. Then quietly, he moans.

“Oh God, I feel sick…”

For a second, Trip wavers and then gives in to the sudden urge to reach out and pat Malcolm’s back. When he gets no reaction, he gently moves his hand, rubbing slow circles between Malcolm’s shoulder blades. A wicked part of Trip revels in the unusual and somewhat intimate gesture, but most of him is worrying that the crumpled figure before him is about to throw up inside an unaired turbolift. He can feel Malcolm trying to steady his breathing and tries to time his hand with the long breaths. When a few moments pass filled with nothing but Malcolm’s laboured breaths, Trip tries to break the quiet.

“Normally I’d say let it all out Mal, but in this case I’d really rather ya didn’t.”

Trip feels Malcolm laugh more than he hears it, and his fingers tingle.

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Malcolm asks, finally lifting his head to look at Trip with bleary eyes. “Think I’m okay now,” he mumbles, shifting back into an upright position.

Trip’s hand falls away from his back, but Malcolm still looks unsteady, so it quickly finds it’s way to his side. Once again Trip finds himself marvelling at the touch, his arm around the Brit and his hand tucked securely under his arm to hold him upright. It’s somewhat disconcerting to see Malcolm—who usually stands so straight and rigid—slumped against his arm. He tightens his grip, meaning to show support, but Malcolm jerks under his touch.

At first Trip thinks he’s hurt Malcolm but his movements are accompanied with a choked noise he realises is a giggle. That’s when the penny drops: Malcolm Reed is ticklish. Of course, the only way to confirm a hypothesis is to test it again, so Trip holds his breath and gives Malcolm another feather light touch.

Another noise, another twist and Malcolm’s lips quirk into a quick smile. Trip’s own face splits into a grin. Malcolm twists slightly, pulling down his arm to squash Trip’s fingers in a not so subtle hint. There’s a smirk on his pale face, and Trip’s sure he’s taunting him. ‘ _Do it, go on. Try me,’_ the look says.

Trip makes the wise decision not to push his luck. Even while he is sick, Malcolm can probably have him flat on his back in a number of seconds. Nevertheless, he tucks away that particular piece of intel for a later date.

Instead, he tugs his hand out from under Malcolm’s arm and throws it over his shoulder. It offers some support between the wall and the armoury officer’s neck, and within seconds Malcolm is resting against it. His eyes close again, and Trip finds himself acting as pillow to the drowsy Englishman. Trip wriggles closer, so that the two of them sit with their legs together, knees bumping occasionally. He tells himself it’s so that his arm won’t stretch awkwardly or go numb, nothing to do with being closer to Malcolm, but that’s a lie. It gets harder to lie to himself when Malcolm shifts too, and his head falls into the crook of Trip’s neck.

Trip wonders if Malcolm feels him tense at the change, but if he has, he isn’t reacting. If anything he slumps more into Trip, the long day and hours of lost sleep finally catching up to him. When he speaks, he’s sluggish.

“How long are we in here for?” he mumbles into Trip’s neck. Tingles explode across the engineer’s skin as Malcolm’s breath ghosts over him, and the knowledge that those lip he has dreamed about are so close to him. Trip tries to swallow the lump in his throat.

“Uhh.. Cap’n said an hour at best, didn’t he?”

Malcolm groans. Trip wants to peer round at Malcolm, but he’s having a hard enough time trying not to blush as it is. Instead, he stares at the crack of the doors as he speaks.

“So you’re admitting you’re sick then?”

In his shoulder, Malcolm sighs. “I don’t suppose I can really deny it now, can I?”

“Not really, nah.” He hears Malcolm yawn, and can practically feel the exhaustion rolling off the smaller man.

“Look, Malcolm, if you’re tired,” he starts, and Malcolm’s head perks up just in time to watch him stumble over his words. “You can sleep with me—I mean like, _on_ me! I mean you can, uh, rest your head on m’shoulder is what I meant, if you’re tired.” Trip snaps his jaw shut before he can dig any deeper. Malcolm chuckles.

“I suppose I could do with some shut eye. Just a few minutes,” he says, dropping his head back onto Trip’s shoulder. “Just till this headache lets up,” he adds, but already his voice is quieter, muffled by Trip’s uniform.

By the time Trip has composed himself enough to respond, he finds that Malcolm has already fallen asleep.

Trip smiles to himself, and then, as gently as he can so not to wake the tired Englishman, pulls his PADD from his pocket. Maybe he can get that report finished before they’re let out of here.

* * *

Around an hour or so later, Trip taps out the last few words of his report. He would probably have been finished sooner, but Malcolm’s soft snores kept pulling him from his thoughts and he would find himself watching the sleeping man instead of writing. Now though, he places the PADD down beside him and relaxes back against the wall. His back sore, the engineer shuffles into a more comfortable position, slouching against the inside of the lift. Work done, and the PADD woefully empty of anything remotely fun, Trip finds himself with nothing to do and so his eyes wander over Malcolm and study the sleeping man.

Trip grins at the sight of him curled into his shoulder.

Malcolm is always moving. Even when they stand behind Jonathan during important first contact missions and his arms are tucked behind a rigid back, his eyes are constantly moving, and his head will turn at the slightest noise. Now, for once, Trip gets to see what Malcolm looks like when he’s shut off the security officer inside him, and he’s just a man who's fallen asleep in a senior officer’s lap.

Trip has heard the things Malcolm’s armoury crew say, heard the lighthearted jokes that their senior officer is either a vampire or a robot (Trip’s own crew have suggested he might even be a Vulcan in disguise), but Trip can now confirm that Malcolm didn’t require a coffin or a charging station to sleep. He can also assure them that Malcolm’s ears are extremely human, as he has been staring at them for the past five minutes. Just to reassure them though, he decides he should investigate further, so he can give his crew a full report.

While Malcolm sleeps, Trip can stare at his face all he wants. That’s a very human nose he has, and those lips look positively human too. Of course, he’ll have to make more thorough checks to be sure, and it is at that point that Trip shakes his head and scolds himself. Those are not the type of thoughts he should be having right now. Nor should he be thinking about the way Malcolm’s hand has fallen onto his leg, and how the spot where his fingers brush his thigh feels like it’s on fire.

Malcolm must be dreaming about about something, because he mutters something into Trip’s shoulder and shifts in his sleep. The realisation dawns on Trip rather abruptly, as Malcolm’s arms snake their way around him, that their Chief of Security is a cuddler. Strong arms close around him, pinning him to the spot. Trip grins to himself, and leans back, basking in the embrace for a moment, before Malcolm yawns, and starts waking up.

Malcolm blinks a few times, and Trip watches as he lifts his head. He doesn’t seem to have realised that his arms are wrapped tightly around Trip, or that the engineer’s own arms are wrapped around him. He mumbles something incoherent and then grins. Any pleasantries Trip had been preparing are tossed out the airlock, as his breath catches in his throat. Bleary-eyed, sluggish and more than a little fever ridden, Malcolm is still the most gorgeous man he has ever seen. The relaxed grin is just a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream alongside a warm piece of pecan pie. It makes everything better. When Trip manages to open his mouth, he can only croak.

“Mornin’ princess,” he says, instantly kicking himself for blurting out the first thing to come to mind. It seems to confuse Malcolm too, who pulls back further and gives him a confused look. “Y’know… like Sleepin’ Beauty…” he offers lamely.

Malcolm stares at him vacantly. Another lesson on their resident Brit, apparently; he is not a morning person. Trip is learning a lot about Malcolm today, maybe they should get stuck in places more often.

“What on Earth are you on about Commander?” Malcolm asks, his voice husky. Trip’s heart skips a beat. Luckily he is saved from floundering for an answer when his stomach rumbles. Malcolm seems to snap out of his sleepy hazy, and Trip catches him flushing a pink as he disentangles himself from Trip’s embrace.

“Hungry?” Malcolm asks quickly, one hand reaching for the tray of food he left in the corner of the lift. He waves it towards Trip who looks at the sandwich longingly.

“If you don’t mind,” he starts but Malcolm nods insistently.

“I’d avoid the crisps, but the rest is yours.”

Trip smiles and reaches for the bowl. “You should probably eat somethin’ Mal, you have the sandwich, I don’t mind the _chips_.” He says, emphasising the word that has been a point of contention between the two of them for some time now. Malcolm grimaces.

“Honestly, I’m not sure what’s worse, the bastardisation of English, or the fact you’re going to eat those,” he says, but his hand is already reaching for the sandwich, so Trip can tell he isn’t going to put up that much of a fight. In fact, the two sit in near silence for a few minutes, the only sound being Trip’s chips. The engineer glances over at Malcolm as he finishes his snack, watching as he nibbles at one half of the sandwich.

“You feelin’ any better?” he asks quietly, so as not to disrupt the comfortable quiet they have settled into. Malcolm shrugs.

“A bit, I don’t feel too cold anymore.” He suddenly drops the mostly uneaten sandwich back on the plate. One hand drops to his stomach, the other rises to his head.

“Still a bit queasy though, and my head’s killing me,” he mutters. Trip is quiet for a moment while he thinks. His momma has a whole list of remedies for nausea, but he isn’t sure where he’d find any ginger or peppermint leaves in the turbolift.

“Well, I don’t have anything for yer stomach right now, but…” He scratches at his neck, suddenly entranced by the sight of the ceiling. He can feel Malcolm’s eyes on him, and heat rising up his neck. “My mom, always used to rub m’head, y’know?” He risks a glance back, and finds Malcolm is looking at him, one eyebrow rising. “A massage, Malcolm.” He feels his entire face light up brighter than a dying star and watches both Malcolm’s eyebrows raise.

“Oh, yes of course,” the Brit says, glancing away to stare at his boots.

The silence is almost painful. Trip coughs, trying to catch Malcolm’s eye. When it becomes apparent his eyes are now glued to his feet, Trip sighs.

“Look, Mal, anyone can see you’re not well. It’s just, if I can stop the headache a bit, maybe ya won’t feel as sick anymore.”

He watches as Malcolm bites his lower lip.

“I mean, I’m just sayin’ I’d rather this than you hurlin’ all over the place.”

For a second Malcolm doesn’t say anything, and then he turns to Trip, face virtually unreadable. He nods.

“If you… think it will help Commander,” he says, and Trip would smile, only he’s back to ‘Commander’ and that means Malcolm’s shields are going back up. Desperate to keep the atmosphere light, Trip throws him a smile and claps his back.

“Good choice, Mal, come on then—” He crosses his legs and then pats his lap. “Lie down and let me work my magic.” He’s sure he hears Malcolm snort as he shuffles over to sit in front of Trip. Were Trip a lesser man, he would have poked Malcolm in the back for it, but his inner gentleman insists that is no way to treat a sick man. Instead, he raises his hands to help pull Malcolm down and rests his head in his lap. He feels his heart flutter as Malcolm cracks a smile up at him. He’s just as handsome upside down.

“I can see right up your nose, Commander,” Malcolm says, and this time the rank is relaxed, accompanied by the playful look in his eyes. Trip taps his nose. “Then close your eyes, ya dolt,” he says and Malcolm obliges.

Even relaxed like this, Malcolm’s face is pinched, lines on his brow indicative of the migraine he is trying to hide. In gentle movements copied from his mother’s careful touches, Trip pushes his thumbs to the centre of Malcolm’s forehead, and then slowly drags them out. He repeats the movement a few times, and finds the rest of his fingers moving to capture the sides of Malcolm’s face to hold him steady. Though he tries to concentrate on keeping a steady pressure to his touch, Trip can’t help but thread his unoccupied fingers through Malcolm’s dark locks. Thankful that Malcolm can’t see the dopey smile on his face, he finds that he was right in his assumption that the armoury officer’s hair is soft as a kitten.

He lightens the touches along Malcolm’s forehead, instead switching and massaging the fingers in his hair along the curve behind his ears. Malcolm’s head drops further as he works at the pressure point beneath the ear, and he sighs softly. Trip continues for another minute or two before he stops, though he keeps his hands looped under the lieutenant’s skull. Malcolm's eyes don’t open, but his bottom lip juts out in a pout.

“Don’t stop, Trip, that was...” He smiles.  “Very nice.” His voice is languid and soft and it makes Trip feel as though Phlox’s Pyrithian bat is flying around his stomach.

“Ah well.” Trip cringes at how strained his voice is. “This next one should be even nicer.” He guides Malcolm’s head to rest in the dip of his ankles, and lets his hands move further down to his neck.

“M’gonna need to get to yer neck Mal,” he manages to croak out. Malcolm’s hands come up and make quick work of unzipping his uniform and undoing the first button of his undershirt. Trip watches as Malcolm folds them back over his stomach, and then cracks one eye open.

“Is that okay, Trip?” he asks.

Not trusting himself to speak, Trip nods, and Malcolm smiles, closing his eye again.

Grateful that all his work in Engineering has given him steady hands, Trip runs his fingers down Malcolm’s neck, from his jaw to just below his collar. As he repeats the process, feeling Malcolm’s tense muscles slowly start to loosen, Malcolm’s face becomes more relaxed. Trip has to hold his breath as he runs his fingers along the tendons in Malcolm’s neck, and then follow the curve of his collar bone. His hands freeze for a moment, distracted by the sight. Malcolm makes a small, questioning, noise. Quickly, he starts moving again, this time running his hands along the back of Malcolm’s head.

To be honest, he isn’t sure if he is doing the right movements, he never really paid much attention to what his mother did when he was laid low, but he remembers the relief her cool touches brought, and the pleasant tingles that outweighed the pounding headache. Eyes glued to Malcolm, he assumes he must be doing something right because he looks more relaxed than Trip has ever seen him. The lines across his head have all but vanished and every now and then he lets out a small gasp or a quiet hum. It’s almost hypnotic for both men, as Trip moves his hands back to Malcolm’s face and starts the series of movements again.

Ten minutes later, Trip slows his movements and his hands come to rest at the base of Malcolm’s skull, supporting his head in strong hands. The lieutenant’s breathing has evened out, and Trip wonders if he’s fallen asleep again. Trip drops his head slightly trying to figure it out, and feels his fingers grip a little tighter at Malcolm’s hair when he realizes how close their faces are.

Trip suddenly finds himself hoping the repairs take longer, if not to spend more time like this with Malcolm, but also because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand without making a fool out of himself. He shudders at the thought of Jonathan opening the doors to find Trip sitting here squirming like a teenager on prom night.

It seems, however, that Malcolm has not fallen asleep, and while Trip tries desperately to think of Ambassador Soval doing the cancan in a bikini, in an attempt to quell the heat rising in him, the chief security officer opens his eyes and stares up at him.

“Why’d y’stop?” Malcolm asks, and while his voice is sleepy his eyes are anything but. Scanning Trip, acknowledging the lack of space between them, and glancing at the arms around his head, Malcolm’s dark eyes look different. Trip has never seen this look, but it makes his heart thud against his ribs and his throat close up. Time seems to lose all meaning as the two of them stare at each other in the dimly lit room, which suddenly feels a lot warmer than before, and Malcolm shifts his head slightly.

Now, their noses are almost touching and Trip can hear Malcolm’s breath which have become quick again. For a second—one dangerous second—Trip wonders if maybe, just maybe, Malcolm thinks about him the same way Trip thinks about him. One second is all it takes though, for Trip’s impulsive streak to propel him forward to close the gap and press a kiss to Malcolm’s lips.

Quick and sloppy, it’s the most ridiculous first kiss Trip has had. The awkward angle means noses bump and chins whack foreheads, Malcolm’s eyes are probably wide open, and bending like this is making Trip’s sore back ache, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Those (very human) lips are soft, and the explosions behind Trip’s eyes are more than he could ever have imagined. Somehow the whole thing is nothing like, yet so much better than any of the fantasies he had ever had. He wills himself to commit every second to memory, because he is pretty sure, by the fact Malcolm hasn’t dared to even breathe through the whole ordeal, that he has made a horrible mistake, and ruined their friendship forever.

He pulls back quickly, head whipping around to stare anywhere other than at Malcolm. The comm. panel will do nicely.

“Sorry,” he says, voice thick.

He can feel Malcolm’s head turn and brush against his thigh, and then a hand reaches out. It hovers just below his line of sight, before coming to rest on his cheek. Gentle fingers, curved around his cheek rather than curled into a fist, spark a fire in Trip’s chest as he dares to let himself to believe this is actually happening.

“Trip?” Malcolm’s voice rings clear and cuts through the muffled silence in Trip’s brain. He would move, only it feels as though he’s been welded to the spot. A few seconds later, and the hand falls from his face, only to reappear seconds later when Malcolm has pulled himself up from Trip’s lap.

Malcolm gently nudges his cheek, turning him so that they are face to face, but Trip’s eyes drop to the floor. He looks at Malcolm’s knees, the way way his legs fold under him while he sits across from him, or at the hand he has against the floor to steady him.

“Trip, please?” Malcolm’s voice is quieter now, and a lot closer than before. “Look at me,” he all but whispers. Still, Trip’s eyes are glued to the floor beneath them. Malcolm sighs.

“Seriously, you’re an absolute idiot—” And he cuts himself off by reaching forward and pulling Trip in for another kiss. Of course, Malcolm’s kisses are much more straightforward; no bumped noses or clashing teeth, just Malcolm’s lips capturing Trip’s in a kiss that says more than either man ever could.

Trip’s eyes fall shut as he relaxes into it, and he cannot help but grin into the kiss as happiness swells in his chest. Everything falls away as Malcolm’s hands roam his chest, his hair, his back, there is nothing but the feel of Malcolm against him as he pulls the Englishman in by the waist. His hand slipping lower down his back makes Malcolm gasp, but it’s an excited gasp that leaves his lips parted enough for Trip to deepen this kiss. Nothing else matters as the two of them explore each other, finally allowing themselves to feel everything they had denied themselves up until now.  

Nothing else, that is, until there is a noise outside the door and light suddenly pours in as the doors slide open. Malcolm, with his back to the door, freezes in horror, but Trip can see, over his head, that it is only Jonathan who stands above them, civvies on and Porthos at his feet. There’s a few seconds of nobody speaking as Trip pulls his face away from Malcolm and turns to meet Jonathan’s eyes.

The captain’s face is unreadable, and Malcolm scrabbles to stand to attention, wobbling on unsteady feet. Trip follows suit, but keeps one hand around Malcolm’s waist to keep him upright.

Just as Malcolm opens his mouth, Jonathan’s hand comes up and a smug grin appears on his face.

“Thank goodness for spatial anomalies,” he says, eyes shining with amusement. “I thought I was going to have to make _this_ ,” motioning to the two of them, “an order.” He steps back and waves a hand behind him, allowing the two men to escape the confines of the turbolift. Somehow, they make it out without Trip’s hand leaving Malcolm’s side, and neither man seems to mind.

“An order, Cap’n?” Trip asks, not trusting the mischievous look on his friend’s face. Jonathan looks at them innocently.

“Oh, didn’t I say? Crewmen Sánchez had the lift fixed over an hour ago.” Jonathan winks at them. “Well, goodnight gentlemen. Come, Porthos,” he calls to the beagle, and then turns on his heels. He starts off down the corridor back to his quarters, whistling to himself while Porthos potters along beside him. Trip and Malcolm stare at each other for a second, before they hear Jonathan call back. “Oh, and I had your dinners sent to Trip’s cabin! Better hurry before they go cold.”

They are left in stunned silence for a moment, before Malcolm turns to Trip.

“What on Earth just happened?” he asks, incredulous.

Trip shakes his head, feeling laughter bubble in his chest. “Malcolm, I’ve got no idea what that was.” He pulls Malcolm tighter to himself, reaching down to place a kiss on the top of his head. He chuckles into his hair when he feels Malcolm's hands reaching for his waist. “But what I do know,” he says, one hand cupping Malcolm’s chin so he can look him in the eyes, “is that there’s dinner in my room, ‘n a very hungry armoury officer in my arms. What say you come back to my place?” he asks.

Malcolm grins then gives him a look of mock horror. “Why Trip Tucker, do you invite all the girls back to your bedroom on the first date?”

“Nah,” Trip says, leaning forward to sneak another kiss. “Just the ones I _really_ like.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all liked, please lemme know if ya got any comments or criticisms? 
> 
> also i cant stop thinking of Soval in a bikini please send help


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